


It Is the Nature of Dreams to End

by agarjelley



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, and a tad of external too!!, bit of a bittersweet ending, curt is a smart dumbarse, owen is a morosexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agarjelley/pseuds/agarjelley
Summary: ---Snapshots of moments following Curt and Owen's relationship from start to stairs





	It Is the Nature of Dreams to End

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in May, and it was originally just a collection character studies and rewrites of some of my favourite fics. This was so i could write an essay on how body language is used in SAF, but it became something much larger  
> The fics I rewrote scenes from are one more time with feeling and before the storm by miss_tatiana and Words Become Superfluous by stargate-ruiner (purple planet). Please go read them, and support the creators of these fic because they honestly make me emote each time I read them!  
> Also, if any of the original authors read this and want their work removed then please message me and I will rewrite that section.

Everything about him was messy.

The way he didn’t fold his clothes, make his bed, his bedhead in the morning. How Owen would laugh, it was so full and riddled with emotion. It was rich and intoxicating and carefree like every other part of him. Unlike Curt, who was always so reckless, the only time Owen was ever usually methodical was on missions.

It was like he said, whenever asked about what he wanted to do as a kid, he should have been an actor. Owen always talked about it. It had been a passion since before he went to university. Maybe in a different life, he would be. He would have been the best.

Then, he started being less messy in general. It started small; slicking his hair back, making the beds for the two of them, folding his clothes instead of just dumping them on the floor. This irked Curt in a way that he didn't quite understand. When asked why Owen simply brushed it off with an “I thought you’d appreciate it.” Sure, him helping out wasn’t bad (it was a sign of maturity after all), but other small things changed Owen.

Maybe it started in Venice, or Brussels, Curt didn’t remember, but this seeped into all of his life; the way he laughed was less full, how he held himself in private, the fact that the mask was never down even when the pair played poker. He was just fully a character: Tall, dark and dangerous.

It felt so wrong. Unnatural. Like Owen was constantly holding his breath around Curt.

Curt had caught him looking in the mirror before a mission once, guard down. He had woken up earlier than he normally would. It was still dark out, yet he was already dressed. The way Owen traced a crack in it absentmindedly, gliding his finger along the glass. To be fair, a lot can happen to a person’s appearance on the mission, yet he appeared the same as always; a dark slicked-back mass of hair, wide, round eyes, and a slightly crooked jaw. Tired, but no more than usual. Still, it was like Curt was seeing a ghost.

But then he closed his eyes and drifted.

The thought of the night before haunted him. There was a hitch in the mission. A brawl, scrape, melee, it doesn’t matter what twist they put on it, they had fucked up. It had started so well, their cover being that of a diplomat and his assistant trying to reason with an arms dealer. They were in, but (of course) Owen couldn’t hold his tongue for one minute and, not only got a black eye but ended up losing the bomb’s blueprints.

Cynthia had yelled for what felt like hours, not caring for who had fucked up but that they were on the plane first thing in the morning. Owen had said he felt his brain melt and drip out of his ear at the screech of a banshee, but when he didn’t get even a half-hearted snigger, he had gone to bed rather sullen.

Curt felt the gold sunlight thread itself through a crack in the curtains and recoiled instinctively. It entered his eyes. It was too early for this shit. But with his eyes closed, his other senses felt heightened. He lay there, vaguely aware of the movement in the bed adjacent. First the shifting of covers, a change in breathing pattern, a creak of hotel bed springs. Then nothing.

Silence.

Maybe he was gone, Curt hoped.

There was added pressure to his bed and a hand on his side. A familiar smell of something earthy, like grass and honeysuckle. His voice was gravelly with sleep. “Curt? Are you awake?”

He made a non-committal grunt. It _really_ was too early for this shit.

“Are you still pissed at me? Look, I get it. I fucked up, but I just didn’t like what that guy was saying to you.”

Curt pulled a pillow over his head, “Fuck off, Carvour. I don’t care.”

“Oh? I’ve been demoted to last name only, have I? That’s never good.” He heard the slight smile creep in his voice. What a dick. He wasn’t allowed to tease him after he jeopardised their mission.

A rash feeling came over Curt, as the pillow was torn away. To punch him was the primal gut instinct, but it was too early for a domestic. Besides, Cynthia was already pissed at the pair, any additional paperwork would just be demoralising at this point.

He could now make out Owen in higher detail. His lips were hanging open and his eyes were alive. So alive. The color of hazel with a gold rim in the centre. He wanted to kiss him. It was hard to deal with the temptation. So, instead, he bit down on his lip and said, "Seriously Owen? Seriously now, are you serious?"

He smiled a lopsided smirk, the light hitting his hair in a way they looked like iridescent tendrils which glowed. "Perhaps."

“Are we off?”

“No, not exactly, old boy. I was just going to tell you that, well, Cynthia called earlier. We have another assignment in three days, and well..." He trailed off. Uh oh, that's never good.

"What?"

His ears had turned pink slightly, at the tips. Flustered. Like water on a duck, all his usual swagger had come off him. "Curt look, I'm sorry but- I just- but I- there's a- shit."

"What?"

Almost nervously, Owen ran his hand through his hair. It wasn't slicked back, so it was a futile effort. Thick strands fell back in front of his face. "It's just, I don’t think we’re working together anymore after this next one. I’m unreliable in the field with you, and the higher-ups just think…” He paused, sighed and continued, “We have another shot to stop the gits who stole from us, but that’s it.”

“One last shot?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I was starting to pack up.”

“Okay. I’ll get up in a second.”

For a split second, Owen hesitated. He stopped, turned and said, "Curt, if we don't make it out after this one, I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"The thing is..." He started, faltering, something inconsolable flashing across his eyes, like a doctor deciding how to phrase a life-threatening disease to a patient. “The thing is I really respect you, you're a great agent and I don’t say it enough. And I'm glad we work so well together, despite my mishaps. I don't want _this_ to be over."

Curt smiled, half-asleep. "Owen, we work well together because we're the best in the business. But honestly, the way you phrased that. It was like you were going to say you were dying."

A weird noise came out of Owen's throat, like he was turning something into a scoff. "Yeah well, I'm an open book to you, Curt." Owen placed his hand on his shoulder, before retreating to the bathroom to round up toiletries.

\---

To Owen, Curt was ineffable. He wasn’t perfect or steady, like an agent should be. No, he was always so thoughtless and rash, and honestly wouldn’t last a minute in M16. Curt hadn’t typical spy confidence, which he had shown to Owen the numerous amounts he had unravelled easily on missions. It was always turtles all the way down with him. But Owen had fallen down too.

In his opinion, he took so many risks that Owen thought he would be the end of him, and he had told him a lot. Even if the tone was with jest, that was a true fear. Fear of losing each other.

The thing that had grabbed him, even from an initial impression Curt was, in his opinion, very good-looking. Dashing was the word. At the time, his dark hair fell just above his eyes with a sort of casual elegance, and was rather stocky built. Sure, he had large circles under his eyes, and seemed a bit ill-at-ease at the first gala, but Owen was infatuated by him.

The sound of bickering had cut across the slow waltzing music, as a pair at the bar were having what his sister would call 'a mildly heated discussion'. Well, Rosie might have called it 'sexually-charged" as well, but she was always a bit too full of libido. The bartender, who seemed hyper-fixated on cleaning a pesky martini glass, and a then unknown Curt, who had appeared incredibly stressed.

"Keep your voice down! For God's sake!"

“It’s not like you have to drink the ocean, Curt."

“You could have fooled me.” Despite the hushed tones, the American accents of the pair stronger than any other Owen had heard, even in tourists visiting Bristol.

In fact, he had made such an effort to flirt with the foreigner, that he had blown off guarding the English Princess. The bollocking he got for it was worth the way Curt had smiled at him as he spoke. Earnest, wide-eyed, alive, like a child awarded a present at Christmas. The gala finished as soon as it began with him.

They had just chatted, but something about him made Owen feel extremely comfortable. Maybe that should have been the first warning sign.

It was a few months after that, Owen was assigned a case which required him to assist one of “America's greatest spies”. Once arriving at the CIA, his heart did a somersault at the sight of his partner. Dark curls, grey eyes and eyelashes which exenterated the bags under his eyes. Curtis Lawrence Mega. The best damn spy in the world.

They busted that compound in 12 minutes. A record for both services, and with neither party gaining so much as a grazed knee. That night he asked his boss to be paired with him on future bilateral missions, due to them obviously working so well together. Julia had responded to which with a raised eyebrow and a handful of forms.

After a few more co-operative missions, Owen had learnt some things. That his Russian was, put plainly, absolutely shit, that he should keep flirting to a minimum, and he should complete the brief while having fun as he had been a major “buzzkill” according to Curt the first few missions. How was he to know? In the spy world he was but a baby.

More importantly was what he now knew of Curt. The top three being that he was not a morning person, he had his coffee black and was quite a dreadful drunk. Owen had pledged to stay sober on missions by orders of Curt’s boss, as she seemed less than peachy with his behaviour.

He remarked later to Rosie that must have been why they had hit it off so well. The fact they were terrible drunks. She had merely nodded, a big smile on her face, as Curt came in the room with drinks.

"Thank fuck. God, I was dying for a cuppa."

"Oh, sorry. I made coffee." Curt said, sitting opposite them. They were crashing at Rosie’s home, overnight before transferring to Edinburgh for whatever they needed to do next. Poland probably.

"You're absolutely useless, Curt. No wonder Owen keeps you about."

“Rosie, I’m not trying to be funny, but you are a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” Owen said, indignantly. “Curt only keeps me about because without me he’d be dead. Right, love?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re ganging up on me. That’s unfair.” She whined, giving Owen big puppy-dog eyes. “I’m getting a drink.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I can make you a brew if you’re that desperate, sis.”

“No, no. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.” She said, exaggeratedly heaving herself up. “‘sides, you’ll just make a builder’s, and I’m up now.”

“Alright.”

Curt turned to Owen, and whispered, “What the hell did she just say? Is she planning to murder me just because I made coffee?”

Owen laughed softly, which made Curt’s look of pure and uncomfortable fear increase. God, what he would give to bottle that. “No, I offered to make her a cup of tea and she took the mick saying I’ll make it too strong for her, and that she was already doing it.”

“Fucking Brits. I’ll never understand a word that comes out of your mouths.”

“Feelings mutual, old man.”

Curt’s smile was so wholesome as he laughed. If he had a penny for every time he could make him smile like that, he could pay off the UK’s reparations.

\---

Others always see the truth about yourself before you. They say that kids will be skeletons, that eyes are the window to the soul but never that time makes us all so sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it is because of time that we suffer. The nostalgia of what we loved and lost.

Looking back on one particular night was the most important to Curt. The turning point between ‘partners’ and partners.

They had finished their mission early which, naturally, meant celebration. Somehow Curt had suggested they go out and therefore had ended up going to the pub they were staying in’s bar. It was deep in Devon countryside, with primal aged oaks towered outside the establishment. It was incredibly busy for a Tuesday, and so Curt had found himself striking up conversations with more or less everyone in the vicinity. He focused mainly talking to the landlord about the local town gossip and his drink recommendations, chatting up the locals about themselves or something. The details got fuzzy with excessive alcohol. 

A majority of the night, he chatted with a woman that reminded him of Barb. Overly bubbly and vivacious. It started when he had complimented her red hair, saying how striking she looked. She giggled, resting her hand on his and, after a while, proposed that maybe Curt would like to spend the night with her.

Curt politely declined, making excuses that he had work in the morning, it was getting late, etcetera, before quietly throwing a hand full of coins on the bar, and going with a rather confused Owen in tow. He had been harbouring a singular drink all night, insistent that staying sober was just being prepared. He had preferred instead to simply watch Curt’s activity out of the corner of his eye, which irked Curt truthfully.

There was the sound of smashed glass as the door closed after them, and the rest of the pub chimed in to create a rather muffled, yet harmonised “whey.”

Once they were back at their shared hotel room, Curt relaxed a bit further. He held the door for Owen, and proceeded to follow his partner into the room. “That was fun, don’t you think?” he said overly sunnily while closing the door.

Owen nodded, hanging his jacket up. “It was lovely.”

The room was silent as the two started getting ready for bed. As soon he took his shirt off, Curt felt the hairs on his neck rise, like he was being watched. He turned to see Owen briskly turn away. “Owen, you okay?”

“Yes, sorry.” He said, running his hand back through his hair, ears turning red slightly. “Actually Curt, I wondering if I could I ask you a question? I hope it's not too personal”

“Sure. Shoot.”

There was a momentary silence while Curt pulled on his pyjama pants. He heard Owen start to stutter out the next sentence. “That woman at the bar you were talking to. She was clearly interested in you and you seemed to be interested too.”

“Really?” Curt jerked down to pick his watch up, as he took it off.

"If you had wanted to, I would have cleared off for the night and stayed in that car, you know that. So, why didn't you?"

"I know, but... I don't know, she was just..." Curt waved his hand dismissively, thinking of a viable excuse. “She was not my type.”

“Not your type?” Owen repeated sceptically, “Curt, she was gorgeous and practically all over you.”

“I just, I mean-- I, uh, I prefer...” Curt stuttered, desperately attempting to find a believable cover, “...brunettes?” he finished, though it came out more as a question than a statement. He tried to give a reassuring smile, but what he produced was more like a wavering grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Brunettes.” Owen deadpanned. The condescending nature of his voice was not helping.

Curt nodded, a tad too quickly before turning away.

“Preferences for her hair colour aside, that was one of the most striking women I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re so picky with women, that honestly, I’m beginning to believe that you don’t even like women at-”

Curt pivoted on the spot quickly, making Owen cut his joke off and instead quietly finish with: “Oh.”

His world was coming crashing down around him. For nearly fourteen months, Owen had been his partner and now who knew what he thought of him? He was going to lose his job, be disowned, and be shunned by society. Oh Jesus, here come the waterworks, he thought.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"Of course not." Said Owen simply, in such a way that made it seem like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Really?"

"Not a soul."

Curt put his hands to his face and breathed out. Thank God. That was such a weight of his chest. “Thank you, Owen. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can get help and maybe-”

“Whoa.” Owen cut him off, holding up a hand. His expression fraught, brows so furrowed they were practically touching.

“What?”

“Curt, you do realise there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you, right?”

“Yeah, totally.” He started to pace; he couldn’t look him in the eyes. Not right now. “Owen, nothing is any different and we can move past this. you don’t have to put any pity on me, just because I’m a f- “

"Don't say that word." The stern tone of voice shocked him. Curt turned to face him. Owen's face was scrunched up, eyes closed like he was trying to work his way through mental acrobatics. "Don't you dare, Curt Mega."

“What?

“I get. It’s not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows for you but, you’re completely fine and completely normal.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know what it’s like to be ashamed of who you are.”

“Try me,” Owen said, voice low and even.

Before he could even splutter out his next statement to get a word in edgeways, Owen took Curt’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together in a kiss. Curt’s eyes flew open in shock, but they fluttered closed as Owen strengthened the kiss. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he just wrapped his arms around Owen’s waist, digging his fingers deep into the fabric of his shirt pulling him closer. To which, Owen swathed his arms around Curt’s neck.

It was Owen who pulled away first, but only out of requirement for air, and definitely not out of desire to break the kiss. The two of them stared at each other, out of breath and hair messy. It was like their hearts were dancing a waltz in four-four time. To be fair, he wasn’t sure what he should be feeling. At the moment it was an assortment of exhilaration and bafflement, shame and desire.

Even the attempt of trying to process what just happened to him was in vain. Curt placed his fingers to his lips. Owen just kissed me, he thought. Owen can’t be the same as me, can he?

Maintaining eye contact with his partner once more. Owen looked at him with an intensity in his eyes that Curt wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before, from anyone. Curt was entranced, transfixed in the moment.

“I’ve ruined you, haven’t I?” Curt said, as he exhaled a shaky breath. He had to close his eyes as he felt hot tears slip out and start to roll down his cheeks.

“No, no, look at me.” Owen’s tone was gentle and lilting, “I was already ‘ruined’ before this, and I will be after. There is nothing wrong with us, okay?”

Curt blinked. Us. Solidarity. Perhaps they were fine. Perhaps.

“It's going to be alright." Owen wrapped both arms around his waist. "We're both going to be alright, love."

Then, a slight laugh escaped Owen’s lips, as he pushed a few unfurled locks of hair behind an ear. “You like brunettes, huh? Any in particular?”

Curt smiled weakly, “One. But I’m afraid he won’t like me back.”

“I’m sure he does.”

In that moment, everything was starting to make sense.

\---

There was something romantic about it all.

The way summer was fading so fast. It was almost that whirlwind effect. Where everything is changing but you can't do anything to stop it. Blink and you miss it.

Bronzed leaves had already begun to swoop down in the cool breeze, and bristle up against ancient buildings, only to get caught in some divine war monument. That would be where they would curl and wither and die.

The smell of freshly roasted coffee from artisan cafés entwined with the fog that was gathering over London. It covered the streets in a thick chocolate-coloured pall. Fleeting golden sunlight shone through curtains, twisting and illuminating the front room of the town house.

The front room was settled in a comfortable silence. It was quite austere; a couple of paintings strewn on the walls for decoration, Owen’s collection of records and books lined a couple of shelves, yet other than that it was rather soulless. When he didn’t have many possessions in the first place and was barely at home, what was the point? Things that didn’t mean much to him.

They were sat on the sofa Curt resting his head in Owen's lap, who was running his fingers through his hair, pausing only to turn a page of an old collection of prose.

The edges were wrinkled and thinned with touch. Held to the light, even the cover shone like green glass. Owen took it on all his missions as pocket litter, and even though he was still in his very own flat, it was comforting having it there. There was nothing discerning about it; just a few drops of browned blood on the back, his own annotations and a pencilled in note in the front cover:

_"I thought you can take a piece of me wherever you go."_

Curt's handwriting. It was what his nan called doctor's handwriting, almost illegible like a spider stood in an inkpot and dragged its legs across the page. But there was love in every dot, and longing in every curl.

Other noises filled the room from the open window; the soft warbling voices of vocalists from the record player perched on the packing boxes, an occasional chunnering of laughter of the outside world and snippets from unimportant conversations about weather and the cost of buses. It was white noise to them.

Owen blinked. The record had flipped off, and scratched to a halt, snapping him out of that bliss. He realised how dry the back of his throat felt. Scratchy. That was a que to make a drink.

"Love?" Owen leaned over Curt, tenderly sweeping a loose curl of hair off his forehead, only to continue to run his fingers through his hair. It was soft and delicate, a bit thicker than his own. "Love, are you asleep?"

"No," Curt's voice was thick with sleep. He squinted his eyes open slightly. His lips were hanging open (mouthbreather) and despite everything else suggesting an otherwise comatose state, his eyes were alive. So alive. Like pure arcane energy was emanating from them. "Not quite yet."

"Sorry," He said, gingerly pulling his hand away. "I'm putting the kettle on. Do you want anything?"

"Coffee?”

"Sure."

He placed a tender kiss on his forehead, before standing, stretching and retreating to the kitchen.

It was by all standards modern. Long and thin, with white matte surfaces. The ideal body in a clothing catalogue. Small shelves and cupboards tittered over each surface from convenience. There was nothing personal about it, it was merely a place to make food, and then eat that food in front of the telly.

Owen moved almost robotically to make drinks. It was something mundane but an easy enough task to do, even when he couldn't get up in the morning. Boil the kettle, put a tea bag in or half a spoonful of coffee, water, and milk and sugar to taste.

When he came back, Curt had rearranged himself to be sat upright, blanket covering his bedhead and was now skimming through the blurb or whatever of the book. He held the mug out. "Curt."

His eyes widened as he looked up from the prose. "Oh, thank you. You kept this?”

“You didn’t think I would?”

Curt looked down. “I wasn’t sure, to be honest. Not sure if it something you’d really read.”

“But you’ve read it?”

“I did.”

“When?”

The hesitation was brief, but still, Curt began, “Uh, it was maybe 9th grade. It was a government compulsory text. I’m not much of a reader, but this was… It was just one that stuck with me.”

“So, this was your copy from school.” It wasn’t a question. He could see that from how Curt looked at it so fondly.

“It was.”

That oh so familiar silence fell over them again, as the sun began to duck down below the horizon and its clouds. It was a waterloo sunset, where hours passed like minutes. Owen watched Curt gaze out the window. Vehicles came and went by, teenagers swore and ran as the outside was hit by a sudden torrential downpour, the rain hitting the glass in such hard and hideous waves that it made the windows quiver in fear.

Owen felt Curt next to him flinch as the thunderous roar fell over them. “You alright?”

“Yes,” He said, trying to regain a fraction of his composure or maybe dignity. “I’m just not a fan of storms.”

“You picked the short stick there, Mega. All it does in this bloody country is rain.”

“It’s marshland, I know." Curt said, fidgeting slightly. “Your hair is getting long.”

"I haven't been able to get it cut,” he replied, playing into the change of subject. “I just came back from Valencia."

"Fun. Well, it makes you look older."

Owen smiled at that. It was not his usual cocksure, lopsided grin, but something softer. Something reserved for Curt. "Is that a good thing, love?"

"I'd say so."

“Then, I’ll keep it like that.”

There was a quote in that book that had been underlined when Owen got it. It said that in the grand scheme of things, friendship, joy and love, they last but a second and therefore we must revel in the time we have in them. And, in this moment, Owen couldn’t agree more.

\---

From an aerial view, Curt forgot Britain looked like that. A patchwork quilt of browns, yellows and greens with a smattering of towns nestled into every nook and cranny. It was like the first time he went to the Circus, and he would have gone again under better circumstances.

It was probably the summer of ‘54, and even though it was just for that mission, he couldn't wait to land. The rest was of the visit was tumultuous. The briefing was, well, brief and was done on the plane. Cynthia had furrowed her brow for most of it, only to raise them when she flipped the page over of the guide.

"Any idea why the Brits wanted to work with you?”

“None.”

“Well, MI6 has assigned a Mr. Owen Carvour to be your partner for this one. So, I want you to be on your best behaviour and don’t show us up.”

“I won’t.”

Cynthia looked pained, as she pinched the brim of her nose. “Christ, Mega. Just don’t screw up and embarrass me. That’s all I ask.”

And then, Curt was practically soldier marched down the immaculate white corridor. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with who Cynthia had mentioned was the director, Julia. Unsure to make small talk, he stuttered for a second before she interrupted.

“Cynthia tells me you’re one of her best?”

Curt blinked. Best? In what world did she think that? “She’s never told me that.”

“Maybe she wants your head to fit through the door. Are you?”

“I’d hope so.”

“Me too, dear. Me too.”

The soft echoes of a conversation grew louder as they journeyed further down the corridor.

"-and Julia goes to me 'Well, Josh, if it's really that bad, you can do Owen's mission and he can sort out the heist.'" It was painful listening to him put on such a high voice. Curt thought his ears were bleeding from the grating sound. "God, no. I'd rather suffer and listen to the Scousers, then go to Manchester. The transport costs there are awful."

"It's really not as bad as you're making it out. If you can get past the accent and the tourists, you'll find the North is lovely."

"That’s because you grew up there, Isha. But it's like, who's actually dumb enough to heist the fucking art gallery? It’s Rothko and Pollock."

A different female voice chirps up, "But, paintings sell for a lot. I sold a couple of my dad's Monet's and they went for a couple thousand."

"But that's not on the black market.” Josh exclaimed, exasperated. “I wouldn’t buy modern art, when you can get half the stuff from a child.”

"Well, it is a mature and acquired taste you obviously haven't developed yet."

There was a quick break for laughter, before they returned to their scheduled programming. He could recognise that last voice instantly, even in a crowd. The way the accent dipped and inflected each syllable. That man from the gala. The man from the compound. Owen Carvour.

He wanted to run to see him, but that was almost a _coup d’état_ waiting to happen. So instead he idly followed Julia.

“Carvour! _Venga conmigo_.”

Owen looked over, and lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh! Julia, dear, we were just talking about you.”

“Unless it’s gonna keep me posi, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Certainly.”

God, what he would do to hear that voice again. To be comforted by its sweet melodic tone. How he wished he was here.

In a matter of seconds his world had dropped and fallen and twisted.

This time around, it was the autumn of ‘57, and it was just formulaic. Everything was nondescript and black. The way the rain was plummeting down, hitting the umbrellas in a roaring clatter. They never reclaimed the body, so the casket was empty. 

Curt scanned the crowd for people he knew. Cynthia and Julia, his co-workers from M16, Owen’s mother and sister. Rosie had burrowed her face into her hands. Curt’s heart dropped as he noticed she cut her hair into a bob, and slicked it back so it resembled Owen’s.

After the ceremony, he stated condolences, and ended up, not headed alone to a vacant hotel room, but to a rundown greasy spoon with her.

Rosie traced the rim of her tea stained cup with her index. It was half-empty which made it make a slight hum.

“When you went away, did he talk about me?”

“All the time.”

She smiled slightly at that. “I’m all the family he had really. I mean, he had mum, but they weren’t close, and dad, well-” 

Curt lent over and held her hands. “He talked about you all the time. It was irritating.” 

“It was the same with you, love!” She laughed, and Curt’s heart was torn in half. “‘My partner Curt did this, my Curt did that!’ It was like you were married.” Rosie faltered, “You were really good to each other.”

“Yes.”

“You know I think he’s out there still. Not just his body, but him. I’d like to think he got out okay.”

“Me too.”

Rosie smiled again, and stuck like that for the rest of the evening. It was hard to believe she was into both S&M and Bible studies. After the funeral, they wrote. He sent her the occasional postcard, and he’d get an essay back. It was always peppered full of Owen and Curt saved them all in case of an emergency.

\---

Something in the way he moved, attracted Owen to Curt like a moth to the flame. It wooed him in an incomprehensible manner. Perhaps it was that something in his smile showed to him he was more than a spy, or the way he could always best him in cards. 

It didn’t really matter what it was, because now, after being left broken, blackened and bruised on a cold steel floor all he could do was hope and pray Curt would come. 

Echoes of something long gone reverberated in his head:

"Oh, _do_ be quiet, old man." 

"Two. I am two years older than you, Carvour. That is all." 

"Sorry I can't hear you speak over the sound of your bones cracking. Maybe, you should be checked for arthritis, dear."

Sure, he was a gobshite, but his teasing always got a reaction from Curt. Sometimes a kiss to silence him or a smacked wrist. But most often a whine of defeat. This was one of those times. Owen was just _too_ quick for Curt. 

They were curled up on Owen's sofa, the northern downpour was pelting the flat's window in thick sheets as well as the occasional autumn leaf, radio playing something soft and scat. The humdrum of Manchester's traffic whirring in time to their back and forth. 

"Remember this, Carvour. You were a spying baby when we met and..." 

"Jesus, Mary and- I was nineteen, five days to my twentieth, and you! You were already twenty-two!" Owen interrupted, rolling his eyes. "You stole my youth."

"Exactly. That's why I have scold you, I am a father figure to you."

"Not really, my real father never spanked me." 

"Oh, shut up." There was no malice there, in fact Curt's voice was dripping with affection. He swathed his arms over him like a teddy bear while Owen laughed into the crack of Curt's neck, vibrating the skin around it. It was nice, domestic. The pair rarely had a chance to do this. 

After requesting a week off to see family, on condition he be ready for a mission the following week, he had invited Curt over to stay, sightsee and spend time with him. He hadn't expected such an enthusiastic response.

As Owen took the opportunity of their brief separation to try and fix his hair, sweeping some loose strands out of his face, Curt traced some tiny white flecks on his partner's skin. Occasionally, once their current topic was up, one would ask the other about how they got them. Usually it went something like:

"This one?"

"That- That is knife mark from a very angry women in Sweden, reminded me of Cynthia in a way. She didn't like it that once I had fucked her, I chucked her, because I had gotten everything that I needed from her "

"Including crabs?"

"Darling, do us a favour? Fuck off."

Then they would laugh, like they were on I Love Lucy and pray they ended up together at the end of the show. 

Curt moved the fabric of his shirt before stopping to point at a rather grizzly wound that stretched over his collar bone. "What is this one? I always see it."

"Of course, you do. A man can't even get a shower without you peeping."

He snorted, almost resigned in a way. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"No, no, no. I'm an open book to you, Curt. Here, move up a second. You can get a better look then."

Curt shifted; his warmth gone momentarily as Owen took his shirt off. The one Curt took interest in was definitely the most painful looking, the rest being small scratches of bullet holes, stab wounds and nails. Reclaiming his position, he traced his finger over it, absentmindedly. "How did you get this?"

"Jesus, I must have been about sixteen. My father and I got into a domestic, and sliced up with a whiskey glass."

"It's probably the worse scar." Curt didn't even need to finish but he knew. It was the worst because it was his father and not some dickhead on foreign soil. 

Owen smiled weakly, "No. The worse will come tomorrow."

"Why?"

"You're going back to the states. Did you forget?"

Whining a soft no, Curt buried his face into Owen's collar bone. Sure, the weather hadn't been too great during his stay, especially for September but they had visited a lot of places. Chetham's Library, the Art Gallery, Manchester Cathedral to name a few. Maybe his was wrong in thinking this but Curt seemed to adore the history behind everything. 

Owen pushed him off, so he slumped backwards on the sofa. "Let's eat out for tea. Make a big deal of it."

"Fucking Brits. Tea means dinner and dinner means lunch. You lot are ridiculous."

"Oh, sod off. At least we have a complex history as a nation."

"Ouch."

Owen flashed him a smirk, before pulling his shirt back on again. "There is a place in town I've wanted to try for ages. _Côte_. It's French I think."

“That’s not the only French you’ve tried.”

He didn’t even look back as he got up. “That’s disgusting, Curt.”

“Oh, but you love it.”

God, Curt was always in his head. Perhaps they were friends first and lovers second. But then again perhaps that is what lovers are. Perhaps.

\---

The mirror in his hallway had a long, thin crack along it. It was placed directly below the staircase, to make it appear larger. The gold light of the sun hit it in a morning and reflected it into a shattered rainbow. Every color reflected in every way. Two years of grieving had made their mark on Curt. A beard pared with shorter hair, that framed his eyes a tad better. His eyes were grey. Not like gray but _grey_. A special gray, just the color of the British countryside’s sky. That was how Owen described them to him.

“God, you flirt with everything, don’t you?" Curt had said to him after, bumping him on the arm with his elbow. "You flirt with veterans, babies and everybody in between.”

Owen raised a hand to his chest in mock offense. A dark lock of hair skidded in front of his eyes. He preferred it like that, natural. With his hair slicked back, Owen looked almost like a mobster. "I certainly do not. How dare you!”

"You call everyone love!"

"But I only mean it with you! It's a phrase that I picked up." said Owen, using a finger to circle his whisky glass. It was half-full still. "My nan used to call everyone that, and now so does Rosie. Besides, it’s part of my charm." And of course, that limey bastard had the audacity to wink at him.

"Fucking Brits." Curt had laughed. God, they were hopeless. Owen was hopelessly full of eccentric idioms and Curt was hopelessly in love with them.

“Okay then, old man. Why don’t you have a go?”

Curt blinked. “What?”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

He didn’t know where to start. There was so much to say in such a short stretch of time. What could be said about him? The way he felt when Owen walked in a room, how the world spins a little slower when they passed the night with each other. It was the worse. How his personality and voice were so enchanting that he’d agree to pretty much anything. It was intoxicating to him. How was he to say, “There's something about you, Owen, that makes me want to open up, and that's terrifying to me”? In fact, it was so difficult to articulate, he didn’t. What came out was more along the lines of:

“I- um- so- well, I-”

“Oh,” said Owen, and both the expression on his face and the tone of his voice so convincingly showed that Curt had just explained something incredibly interesting and involving, like he had recited a Shakespearian sonnet from memory.

“Go fuck yourself, Carvour"

Owen cackled, and clapped. He smiled lopsided, as if he was made of trouble. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Tell me, please." Such sincerity.

"I don't know what to tell you.” It wasn’t a lie. He wasn't sure what to say to him. It was like Owen was the sun, and he was falling in it. Always burning up. “Sometimes it seems like everyone knows who I am except me, because I’ve been filling roles for so long, I don’t know who I am.”

Owen smiled for real. The one he saved for Curt, before planting a kiss on his forehead. "Exactly how I feel as well."

“Really?”

“Truly.” He laughed, at Curt's raised eyebrow. "Honestly now, I am being serious. It's like, you spend so long researching and rehearsing a role to absolute perfection. So that when you’re ready, a bit of yourself slips away. "

"Well, maybe you should become an actor.”

He let out a singular laugh. "God no! I'm too old and too far behind to start now."

"It's not too late. You should some community. Musical theatre is always hiring," Curt suggested.

"I wish. Blows the secrecy thing of being a spy, but maybe in another life."

Perhaps. And to Owen's credit, he would have been the best.

\---

It was dark inside the box, and his eyes kept glazing over. Sat slumped on the cold floor, Owen was doing absolutely anything to keep himself all there. He had done everything from counting, organising his sparse possessions, and was now trying to remember faces. It is harder to recall how people look the longer you have been without seeing them. Yet, still with ease, he could picture his sister’s dark hair and cheeky smile, his boss, Julia, and her resting bitch face and father’s heavy eyebrows.

Curt’s eyes were grey. It wasn’t a special grey, the colour of an overcast day at home. But it was Curt’s grey. That charming man.

They were the most endearing when he had just woken up. They were the most emotive then too, and Owen had adored every moment with him when he was half-asleep and sober. At nights walking around town, he would stare into the streetlights, bathing in the orange. They were safe then. Private moments they could wallow with each other.

There was one night in particular where they were spilling over. That last night he had worked with Curt. He had thought about it so many times, and it seemed like a lifetime ago. The pair had turned in early, because staying in shitty "motel" before long day meant they needed as much rest as possible. Black flies buzzed on the windowsill creating a lax ambient night.

The dream he was having was fearsome and filled with carnage. Most of his dreams were, but they were more often like recaps of previous missions and encounters. Either his brain had made this one up, or he had forgotten about it.

_“Drop it,” A voice said._

_Owen felt his heart skip a beat. Shit. He turned slowly and had seen the man speaking to him down the barrel of a gun, jabbed into Owen’s forehead. It burned against his skin, cold and harsh. The protocol for what to do in this kind of encounter escaped him, he was still so new to this all._

_He started to stammer out some drivel, but his own ears were still ringing from that warning shot. Owen was sure his ear was bleeding where the bullet skimmed across. He couldn't hear himself think. It was weird, like he wasn't there._

_“You’re a British special agent?”_

_He nodded. The floor seemed to be swaying under his feet. Now, the dark outline of the man became blurred and distorted with tears. Smoke seemed to seep out of him, the factory lights bleeding harsh light on him. Brown curls of hair sat plastered against his skin. He looked phantasmal and resplendent._

_"Hurry and get out then. I'm about to blow this place up."_

_Owen quickly bristled passed him. He heard him take a step back, hesitating, before belting down the stairs. The metal floor under foot ringing in his ears._

_It was a whirlwind getting out the compound. Most of the security had been killed off already, but the place was still swamped. Owen had to admit, whoever the man was, he was skilled with a gun, and to think he could have been at the receiving end of it. It was enough to give him palpitations._

Curt’s voice helped stir him from that dream. “Hey, Owen?” It was soft as silk, and drew Owen closer to his partner, shifting the pillow and duvet. A sharp jab in the shoulder, and Curt’s voice again. “I’m not sure what’s up, but…”

He had almost fell out of bed, holding his head to regain composure before reaching over the bedside table to grab his pistol. “Shit! What happened?” His voice was horse from both lack of use and the diet of coffee, tiredness and paracetamol that had been pumping through his veins over the past few days. Their possessions all jumbled up and strewn apart on the floor like glass shards, making him trip as he stumbled to point his gun at the door.

“Nothing is up. I just wanted to talk,” said Curt sitting up.

"Fucking hell, really? You should open with that next time.” He let out a long breath, as he rubbed his eyes with his left hand. He collapsed back onto the bed with a loud thump. “Honestly, Curt Mega, you are going to be the death of me."

"Yeah. Sorry.” Curt's eyes looked glassy, like a doll or like he’d been crying; Owen couldn’t tell. There was unrubbed sleep the corners of his eyes. Perpetual bedhead even more messy and was slightly damp with sweat. He cuddled closer to Owen, wrapping a leg over him as a protective barrier to stop him wriggling free.

“It’s fine. I’d be up one way or another. What did you want to talk about?” He said putting his arm under Curt’s head.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

He blinked. "What?"

"The mission. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Look, we'll be fine. We're two of the greatest spies to ever live, right?” His words melted over each other with a soft slur. “and we’ve never _really_ fucked up. I’ll be looking out for you no matter what."

“I know. I’m looking out for you too.”

There was silence from Curt. Owen could practically hear the gears in his head ticking. Thinking. His mother had always called thinking a dangerous thing. It always led to change. Then:

"Owen?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you tell me you love me?"

He laughed under his breath and rested his chin on Curt's chest, looking up at him. Curt’s breathing was tense and staggered, like it had slipped out. What an absolute disaster. "Did you really just ask me that? You are truly unbelievable, Curt."

"You don't have to."

The pure disappointment in his voice resonated deep with Owen. It was enough to make him cave. He leaned up, kissed Curt on the chin with an "I love you."

"Can you say it again?"

"I love you again. And again. And again. And again." He punctuated every again with another kiss. Cover every square inch of his chest. Just for good measure. "Do you believe me?"

He felt Curt just staring at him, probably a faint smile laying on his lips. His hand had climbed into Owen's hair and was winding through it. It was a soft, tangled mess, thicker than his own, and slightly curlier. It was soothing. In that moment, Owen would never know what he was thinking. Probably some dumb dopey shit or perhaps he wasn't thinking at all. Perhaps.

"I'll never not love you. I promise you that Curt."

"I'll never not love you too." His voice was slightly strained with some unchecked emotion.

They lay in silence for a few minutes. Owen tried to remember that dream. It had seemed so real, so vivid, but the details were now all fuzzy. At the time he thought it meant nothing. Jesus, he had been such an idiot.

“Curt?” He said into the darkness.

The other groaned drowsily, “Yeah?”

“I’ll keep you safe tomorrow, I promise. Then we can go out for tea. Whatever you want, my treat.”

“Burgers?”

“Of course.”

“That sounds good.” Curt held him closer to his heart.

In that moment, he had felt almost infinite. Being cradled in Curt’s arms, who whispered sweet nothings to him, as he parted his hair with his fingers. they drifted asleep together for the last time. It was lovely and soothing, like he was holding the hand inside him.

But that moment had passed.

The door slammed open with a deafening roar. Fuck. That bitch of a commander came in the room. He was the type that would have been ideal for the Aryan race. “Up. Get up now. You’re on the field in ten.”

When he went to close his eyes again, there was nothing. Just darkness, redness, whiteness all in turn. He didn’t care. Besides, now wasn't the time to be sentimental. It was time to go and get the goddamn job done.

\---

When someone leaves your life, those exits are not made equal. Some are beautiful and poetic and satisfying. Others are abrupt and unfair. But most are just unremarkable, unintentional, clumsy. And, as if, right on cue, Curt didn't know he has re-entered Owen's. That is only natural of a gay disaster. To find your partner but the way he had was less than to be desired.

It had been a whirlwind. He still gasped for oxygen, the buzz of being electrocuted still present despite hours passing. Curt’s skin rippled with a current that too should have passed. Not the adrenaline from the mission, but something else.

Curt heaved from the smell of his clothes. They smelled so metallic like they were drenched in blood on vomit.Tatiana looked over from the driver's seat, concern welling in her eyes

He must look like a mess. But, shit, wasn't that allowed? Today might have been his last if not for Tatiana. And the Deadliest Man Alive. God. The way that man had looked him, cold, dark, empty. Like he wasn't the sick bastard who revels in murder. That hypocrite.

"You are okay?" Tatiana's voice said, cutting across the spiral.

He turned a surprised cough into a scoff. "Fine, if by fine you mean killing off a prince and worsening the relationship between Russia and America. Take a right here."

The engine whirred, as the car turned sharply. There was something in the way Tatiana moved that was mesmerising. She was keeping her cool even when Curt was bleeding out on her Italian leather.

“This was not your fault. Is it a left here?”

“No, the next one.” He said, dodging her consolidation. “Yeah, here. Thanks, Tatiana.”

“I don't want to leave you now, Curt.” She pulled up against the curb. 

“I’m fine. You can just drop me off.”

“You know I don't believe that for a second. I am helping you inside.”

Outside, the air was cooler and less muggy, streetlights reflecting of the wet tarmac in a pool of orange. Curt realised it was wet, as the moment he opened the car door, he collapsed onto the floor.

“Curt!” Tatiana cried. “Wait there. I go get help!”

Well, he couldn't exactly move, could he? He was left dry heaving outside the car, hoping nobody walked past to see him so defenceless. It felt like hours, as the chatter in his head ramp up.

_Useless. You couldn't do anything then and you can't do anything now either._

“Shut up.”

_Why? Does it pain you, Mega, to think of it all? Imagine bleeding out, imagine blood loss so severe that you-_

“Shut. Up.”

Curt felt like he was fading into the ground. It was just an ear-splitting quiet. Then a voice that was also as harsh-

“Curtis! Oh my god! Here, let mama help you up.” 

Dear lord, he couldn’t even have one good thing in life. It was like the universe was out against him. Curt felt the strong grip of his mother and Tatiana help him stand, and they waddled to the door of the safehouse.

But, hey, that’s Spy 101 for you: Things change, and partners leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.

\---

Have you ever loved someone with all of your heart? Owen still did. Curt was an open book to him. He wore his heart on his sleeve. Rosie always said that that is only natural of someone who is a disaster.

What hurt more is Curt didn’t even recognise him; he hadn’t hidden his mannerisms or anything and he had joked with him about the competence of that dumbarse Nazi, like old times, and yet still nothing. He was still so in love with him, and yet there was nothing there.

Yet what else was to be expected of Curt? He wasn’t the brightest match in the box, but occasionally he’d do a good. He was Owen’s tugboat.

It reminded him of that time he asked him what kind of animal Bugs Bunny was.

"Curt, you’re so stupid sometimes" He had slammed him against the wall with such force, it had shaken the storage container they were hiding behind.

“Keep it down for God’s sake! We’re on a mission, in case you forgot.”

Owen blinked, and sheepishly pulled away. “Well, you fucking asked. Let’s- Let’s just hurry up.”

“Right, onwards.”

They slipped through the streets made of tin, while the lax security slept, and reached the safe with ease. 

“It’s 0-6-2-8”

“I know, Carvour. I’m perfectly competent, just... keep watch.”

Finger over the trigger, Owen kept his gun hovering over the door. “How we are doing, love?”

“Keep. Watch.”

He rolled his eyes, as he heard the sound of gears click and shudder. Curt made a bizarre gagging noise, as he grabbed something inside the safe. It was as if he was going through the motions. “Oh, Jesus. That’s disgusting. Okay, got it. Let’s bolt.” 

As they crept back, there was a loud clatter, and Owen tentatively retracted his foot. Something small and metallic lay on the floor. A tripwire.

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

He looked up; eyes eclectic. “Run.”

Before he could even question why, Curt ducked from the gunshots clattering above his head.

“Oh, for fucks sake, Owen!” he cried. “Really?”

“I know, I outta watch it!”

They sprinted for the door, taking out officers aiming for each others’ heads. It was enlivening. They busted out there in six minutes.

Outside, the spring air was refreshing and their car was waiting; Owen clambered into the passengers, Curt drivers. As Curt stepped on the accelerator on the motorway, Owen laughed, “Well, I do say always end on a high note.”

Curt cackled. It was so full of adrenaline as he leaned over and kissed him. And even now, like a distant memory, he could still hear him say under his breath, “Moron.”

Jesus, he really was a moron. Reminiscing on “ _la vie en rose_ ?” Get a grip. He swiped most his equipment into the bag with a singular, smooth stroke. Done. Now, he could finish this _American_ off, once and for all.

\---

Everything about him was messy.

The way his laugh grated on Curt’s chest, to how he held a gun, composed but unhinged. Every insecurity and neurosis that he used to manage had gotten out of control and taken him over. Curt thought he saw Owen’s eyes twitch as he looked down on him, like he was in the Principal’s office again. Like he was being reprimanded for being human. Maybe he could tell Curt still found him both loathsome and distasteful, but Rome wasn't built on mutual admiration. With a gun pointed at his head, he felt his fight or flight kick in.

“A new world awaits us, Curt. A world without agencies, a world without spies, a world without secrets.” There was shake in Owen’s voice on the last word. What?

“Some secrets aren't yours to share.” Curt reasoned. 

Owen blinked, surprised. He looked tired. Owen would never let himself look this tired. He had followed him without trying to conceal his path, as if he didn't care anymore. As if this was where his trolley ended.

“What about our secret? The time we shared. The feelings we had... for each other." That coy smile flickered from Owen's lips, his gun lowering slightly. "Are you ready to share that with the world?”

Owen blinked, his face unreadable, obviously caught off guard by such a question. That was another difference- he never used to be caught off guard so easily. The quick-witted Owen Carvour was always one step ahead. He quietly re-adjusted his gun slightly, and said “That secret died the night you left me for dead.”

“Clearly.”

It was ruthless. They way something had changed in Owen. He was so different. Maybe it twisted jerk pretending to be him or just his imagination, guilt and hangover brought to callous boiling point. If he squinted maybe, perhaps, he could see Owen, but the shape was just too blurred. It was just all shapes. Like he was unravelling at the seams, the fog that was wrapping itself around then seemed to be originating from him.

"Here's some advice, Curt. It's called moving on. Do give it a try."

Gunshot. Clatter. The faker’s gun fell ten stories down. Take that, he thought.

“You know, killing me won't take the system offline, so what are you doing?” said the false Owen. his tone was exasperated. He looked so tired. Curt just wanted to hold him in his arms.

"Taking your advice."

\---

To Owen, Curt was ineffable. He wasn’t perfect or steady, but thoughtless and rash. He had a certain _je n'ais se quoi_ about him. But, in this moment, maybe Curt was better than him. This was because none of his blood was currently trickling down the stairs.

"What the fuck?" He said, pressing his fingers to his forehead, searching for the bullet hole. He was like a man in mental perplexation, whom had instinctively dropped at the sound of the gunshot. But maybe there was none. Perhaps it was just a warning shot? A blank?

"I’m out of bullets, Owen." He heard the sound of a gun skitter down. They were at least 10 stories up. It would be smashed into smithereens.

Owen looked up and even though his eyes were swamped with tears, he could see the dark outline of Curt. Smoke seemed to seep out of him, the factory lights bleeding harsh light onto him. He was phantasmal and resplendent. His outstretched arm pointed at Owen. He wasn’t that inane. He knew a sign of peace when he saw one.

“Come with me."

He started to stammer out some bullshit, but his own ears were ringing. He couldn't hear himself think. Maybe Owen was insulting him, or not. It was weird, like he wasn't there. He was here, crying. But not here. God was he even more defected? There wasn’t a protocol for this. He didn’t know what to do.

"Calm down!” said Curt, who made a swift movement as if to cup his cheek, before being slapped away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Owen and Curt had always been like each other’s Icarus, constantly flying too close to each other, and now they were too close again. Burning up with their shared vexation.

"You have to come with me, please. Darling." His voice broke on the last word. Fuck. Owen was weak for that voice.

Welling up the last of his spit and any moisture in his mouth, he spat in Curt's face. "Don't call me that. You mean nothing to me, Mega."

That wasn't true, not in the slightest. He was all he thought about; his past, present and future. And, well, let's face it, Owen would never not love Curt. He could have killed him after the dealing with Sergio. But he didn't. He wanted to be held, he wanted to be kissed, he wanted to be whispered sweet nothings when he couldn’t sleep. But he also needed space and revenge.

“This isn’t you,” Curt tried.

“You never actually knew me!” said Owen. His voice was almost a screech, panicked. “Even before you let me fall, it was all about you.”

“Owen, what happened to you?” Curt asked. Of course, he did. Because he never knew what it was like to be second best. He’d always just that wonderful, charming dead sidekick to Curt Mega’s antics. He obviously never knew the pain of that. 

Owen looked down the stairs at him. “Well, let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Oh! It could possibly be that fourteen-metre fall, which you did absolutely _nothing_ to stop.” He was trying to be patronising, but that wasn’t working. He could tell by the pity in Curt’s eyes. “Might have been that the building fucking exploded, Curt.”

“You’ve bounced back from pain before. You can do it again."

“You don’t even know what true pain is,” Owen yanked away from the hands that tried to soothe him. “You get shot. You lose a few friends. That’s nothing.”

“What did Chimera do to you? Tell me.” Curt had the right to know, he supposed because he couldn’t live not knowing.

“They saved my life. I was never going to get out of that building alive on my own. Not after you pissed off. Did you know, I broke half the bones in my body?"

He stopped, and sat down on the stairs to be at Curt's level, just to get a better look at him. His eyes were still grey, but they were weeping. And he looked so small, like everyone else in the scale of the universe. He was so insignificant.

"Then, do you know what they did? They took me to some island, said it was for my own good and, like a moron, I believed them!” He laughed, singularly and hollow. God, he sounded so exhausted. “They locked me up, let things heal wrong, they- they let me heal wrong. Then, they broke it all again. And then healed it wrong again. And they broke it again.” 

Curt shook his head before closing his hand into a fist and biting down on it.

"Something broke in my head along the way I bet, from all the other little things they did as well. They were so creative; you would have like how creative they were. But they never- They never let me die. So eventually I gave up. I started doing their dirty work. For peace and quiet."

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re only sorry, because you’re scared to die." Owen jabbed a finger against Curt’s forehead. The taste of hatred thick on his tongue. It tasted sour like that clear liquid before vomit. "It doesn’t hurt that much, love.”

“No! I’ve been sorry for years. I’ve been mourning for years.”

“You’re only telling me that, so I don’t kill you.”

“So, what if I am?” said Curt, flapping his arms, “You have no way out of this! Please, Owen.”

 _He could fall._ “I could fall.”

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare even joke like that, Owen Carvour.”

“Try me,” Owen said, trying to keep his voice low and even. He just wanted to fling himself off the stairs. Run away like he had been for the last four years. 

"I can save you still." Curt's breathing was tense and ragged, as it is when you’re choking on your own spit. "Please, hit the fire alarm and we can get out of here."

“Oh, don’t try that.” His own voice sounded so foreign to him. "Don’t give me hope.”

“Please-”

“You! You left me for dead.”

“Hit the fire alarm,” Curt said, his voice almost an inaudible whisper held in stifled air.

Owen shook his head. He wouldn’t let him get back in there again. “And why in the bloody hell would I do that? What are you trying to prove?”

Curt spluttered like he was trying to get a good solid breath, “I’m going to die here if we don’t- We need to get help quick-”

“You left me somewhere just like this, Curt. When I was dying, you walked out. It’s almost poetic the same should happen to you.” 

He went up the stairs, rounded the corner. In the distance he could hear Curt call his name, so soft and small as if he wasn’t sure if his voice even reached him. 

But, Curt couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure when he’d lose enough blood to pass out, but it was going to be soon. And then he wouldn’t wake up. Owen woke up, maybe Curt could too.

There was a deafening silence outside his head.

“Fuck.” He whispered, and, despite himself, he punched the button, causing a loud noise to shoot through his head, ringing in his ears. 

“Owen?”

Owen collapsed next to him, also becoming drenched from the sprinklers. “You’re lucky I loved you.” He spoke loudly, so he could be heard over the brutal ringing of the fire alarm. “Someone will be here to help soon. Fire department, probably. Russian security is infamously tardy, so we’ll be out before they arrive. You can get to the hospital.”

“Then, we’ll wait outside,” and Curt extended his hand.

He took a step back, hesitating. What did he have to lose? No matter what he was a dead man. 

Owen reached out for it. His palms were clammy, slippery and soft.

“Thank you.” Curt reached out and held his both hands, so they were level with his face, and gently pressed his knuckles to his lips. “Thank you.”

It was a whirlwind getting out the compound. There was no security to speak of; they had all cleared off when the siren rang out. Owen had to admit, getting out of there alive was enough to give him palpitations.

Outside, in the dark cover of the night, Curt laid down on the pavement, and was whispering sweet nothings to him. "It is going to be alright." He said. “You’re going to be safe now.” His hair fell into his eyes in tendrils, gold via the streetlights glow. And, despite everything being fractured, in that moment, everything was starting to make sense.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, thanks for reading my first ever fic!! :0c I'd like to thank my friends who Beta'd this about six times for me! You guys are the best!
> 
> Here are some facts and lore about this:  
> \- The title is the name of Reeder's album, "It is the Nature of Dreams to End," which is gorgeous, if not bittersweet. Please listen to it in its entirety, it's incredibly overlooked  
> \- Similarly, Julia is named after the song from this album and Rosie's characterisation is based on Lup from the Zone Cast  
> \- I wrote in some Mancunian English dialect into Owen's dialogue, because I live here and it is harder for me to use London slang lmao  
> \- There is a lot of references in this, from music, musical, podcast and Victorian literature so if you can catch any of the obscure ones, you have my blessing  
> -"Not all exits are made equal" is a passage from the Adventure Zone Podcast  
> \- There is a 5+1 trope in the phrase (In this/that moment) because, honestly, I just love that trope  
> \- The book Curt gave Owen was Whitsun Weddings (despite it being published in 1964) and is based on the copy I own, which has that exact note pencilled in the cover!  
> \- I wrote Curt as really competent because it makes me sad when people make him a moron like he's intelligent but a dumbarse! It takes loads of qualifications to be a field agent yk  
> \- Finally, I gave it a kinda open cyclical ending because I just want Owen to be alive and get better. 
> 
> If you want to, please live a review/comment or even a kudos, it'll make my day! Or you can message me on Tumblr @agarr !


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